


Who Tells Your Story?

by Drag0nst0rm



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Did Maglor ghostwrite it?, Gen, How on earth did the author of the Silmarillion get some of that information, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Noldolante, Post-War of Wrath, Were they just making stuff up?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-28 22:00:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17191079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drag0nst0rm/pseuds/Drag0nst0rm
Summary: The Noldolante has some new verses. Elrond is suspicious of the source.





	Who Tells Your Story?

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own the Silmarillion.

Elrond is intimately familiar with the Noldolante. He knows every verse of it by heart, including the last few verses that Maglor wrote only after Sirion.

Which is why he is so taken aback when he first hears a singer in Gil-Galad’s court carry it on not just through the Sirion verses but past them, to the very end of the war.

He is struck first by the hubris of it before grudgingly admitting to himself the skill. These new verses flow seamlessly with the old. If he did not know better, he might think Maglor had written them himself.

Those thoughts carry him through the fall of Ancalagon, the end of the war, the celebration that followed. He grits his teeth through the verse that claims to follow the argument between Maglor and Maedhros before the stealing of the Silmarils. He expects that the song will end there. Surely it must.

It doesn’t.

It ends, instead, in fire and water, despair and fading and blood.

Elrond stands and walks out.

 

He was on the edge of the room, and he was quiet, he assures himself in the garden when the first swell of emotion has passed. Likely no one noticed. 

It is not that he’s afraid someone will comment. Gil-Galad’s court likes to think they have more tact than that. It is that he dreads the sympathetic smiles, or, more accurately, what those smiles think they are being sympathetic about.

It’s just a song, he reminds himself. No more knowledgeable than any of a dozen other rumors he has investigated as to the Feanorians’ fate. It’s a less plausible rumor than some.

Just a song, he reminds himself.

 

A song that is abruptly everywhere. Somehow it becomes the accepted version of events, and though he hears variations on the argument, on any final words that might have been spoken, on whether Maglor drowned or faded or wanders still, it is the same story underneath.

Gil-Galad is not oblivious to how it bothers him, and he tries to help. “It’s kinder than some of the stories that were circulating.”

This is true, technically; it’s better than the story that claimed Maglor and Maedhros had killed each other fighting over the gems.

But this version cuts where the other did not because he cannot dismiss this as he did that. He knows well the wording of the Oath, the affect it had on them, the way they resisted. They are both Feanor’s kin - he clings stubbornly to the _are,_ refusing to accept the past tense until he has more evidence than the embellishments of a bard - and the Oath would not turn them against each other. Even if he is wrong and it did, it would be long before they surrendered to it.

This, though … 

He thinks of Maedhros’s steely resolve, already pushed to brittleness. Thinks of the nightmares he woke from gasping on the nights he slept at all. Thinks of how Maedhros had nearly died in a skirmish and hadn’t denied Maglor’s quiet, fearful accusations of not even trying to dodge the blow.

He thinks of Maglor’s bright, fragile optimism that had only rarely touched his eyes. Thinks of the frantic, wild songs he always cut off whenever Elrond approached. Thinks of the desolation he had glimpsed as he and Elros had ridden away. 

He can believe, though he desperately doesn’t want to, that Maedhros would jump. He can believe, though he desperately doesn’t want to, that Maglor would condemn himself to wander alone.

He can believe this, and so it hurts more.

He does not answer Gil-Galad.

 

He is in the marketplace when he hears a Man singing snatches of the Noldolante, and he’s finally had enough. 

“Where did you hear that?” he asks, careful even now to keep his voice polite.

He knows the name of the elf the Man gives. He tracks her down and asks the same question.

He continues doing this until he comes across an elf who struggles to remember before he finally tells him that he heard the song on the wind as he travelled.

“By the coast?” he asks, mouth dry.

“By the mountains.”

This is the first bard who tells him this. It is not the last.

 

The next time he goes looking for Maglor and Maedhros, he does not go to the coast. He goes to the mountains and travels until he hears a song on the breeze that tries to slip unnoticed into his thoughts.

He does not passively listen. Instead, he strikes out, singing a fierce song of staying with all the power in his blood rising up.

He does not know if his Maia blood is enough to overcome Maglor in a contest of song. It doesn’t really matter because to contest the song, Maglor has to sing back, which gives Elrond something to ride towards, still singing on.

He slides off his horse the moment he is in reach of his foster-father. Maglor is ragged around the edgse, and his eyes are tight with unspeakable pain, but he is alive.

“Only you,” Elrond says furiously, “would fake your own death by singing about it. How on earth did you get Maedhros to agree to that?”

Maglor is cornered, caught in the tight turn of the mountain pass. He looks away, lines of pain tightening around his eyes. “I did not lie about that,” he says, voice breaking. “And I did not quite claim to be dead, either. Just … fading. Somewhere other than here.”

The news about Maedhros tightens Elrond’s throat. He had hoped … 

“I’m sorry,” he says gently. “So very sorry.”

“You of all people have no reason to be.”

Elrond shakes his head but sets that grief aside for later. “Why, Ada?” he asks, spreading an arm to indicate the mountains, the song, any of it, all of it.

“Well, I could hardly just walk into the city,” Maglor says. “But I thought … I wanted the end of the story to be known. And you deserved some closure.”

“Hearing that you intended to wander the world alone until you faded into an echo on the wind isn’t closure,” Elrond says flatly, but he catches himself at the fragile look in Maglor’s eyes. “But I thank you for the kindness in trying. Where are you camping?”

Maglor appears taken off guard at the question. “Nearby. Why?”

“Because it is nearly time for supper,” Elrond says, preparing to lead his horse, “and it has been long since we shared a meal. I have horrid stories of how people have been mangling your verses to share and good food from Lindon to make up for it.”

Maglor wavers, uncertain, before nodding jerkily and starting to lead the way. He pauses after only a few steps and half turns back to Elrond. “Selfish as it is, I am … It is very good to see you.” He smiles, hesitant.

Elrond’s answering smile is as bright as the gem that, like Maglor, is nowhere near the sea.


End file.
